Farewell and adieu to winter...for now

There was something primeval about it from the second we stepped out on the trail.

The snowpack was thick — 12 inches or more in some spots — and without snowshoes it was an exhausting task just to hike the mile into the forest where we intended to camp.

Just as we reached our spot it started snowing again, and it continued as we clipped together our tents and gathered the wet, green wood that would barely suffice for a fire. All night it fell, stacking up on the shoulders of the four figures who sipped whiskey and spoke gently about the struggling flames as the Catskills rose around us. The cloud-covered sky obscured the stars and blurred the horizon, reducing our entire world to a football field’s worth of white, barren moonscape that lay around us. By morning, another two inches had fallen.

People always look at me like I’m slightly crazy when I say I’m going backpacking in January. Maybe they’re right.

"You know it’s winter, right?" they ask.

Oh yes. Well aware.

But I love it. And now, in late March, I’m probably one of the very few in North Jersey who isn’t all that excited for spring. Sounds crazy, I know, especially considering that there was once a time in my life when I could hardly wait for that first warm breath of 60 degree air to flow up from the south.

There were even years that I’d convinced myself that I got some kind of seasonal depression from the long, silent nights, and that my future was destined to be in a more southerly latitude as a result.

That’s all changed as I’ve aged, of course. I still enjoy the spring, and certain things like the blooming of the forsythia or that first night game of the baseball season can’t be replicated. But there’s a lot about winter that I love now, perhaps nothing more than the peace of mind it gives me.

This world is a loud one (maybe too loud for me), and to walk in the middle of a humid August night is to walk amongst the cacophony of nature’s whispers. Birds and bugs sound their mating calls, and the woods are constantly moving with a kind of nervous energy that can be found when animals know they only have so much time. Nothing is quiet, nothing is still.

Walk in the winter, however, and the earth is more restrained. The trees are voiceless except for the wind threading through their branches, and that thick blanket of night sky is never as clear as it is when the temperature drops to 15 degrees. The clatter of deer hooves on concrete carries for a mile, every smell — from the rustic scent of burning wood to the harsh bite of cigarette smoke — is amplified, and the starlight from the constellations is never so sharp.

In other words, if summer is your friend who never shuts up, winter is the one that only speaks when it needs to. It hardens us, shows us every six months that nothing is eternal and warmth never lasts. They’re good, if not sobering, lessons to learn.

Right now, even though errant snowstorms keep finding their way into the foothills of the Appalachians, it’s clear that my season is ending. The nights are cold but the wind is warm, the ice on the lakes has melted, and it’s time to again bid my frigid friend a fond farewell.

It’ll be back, though. Sooner or later.

I’ll be ready.

Email: janoski@northjersey.com

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